Authors: Scott Lynch
“What,” said Locke, “is this crap on my chest?”
“The poultice, sir. Varagnelli’s Poultice, to be precise, though I hardly presume
your familiarity with the subject. I employed it to concentrate the
waning energy of your bodily channels; to confine the motion of your warm humors in
the region where it would do you the most good. To wit, your abdomen. We did not want
your energy to dissipate.”
“What was in it?”
“The poultice is a proprietary conglomeration, but the essence of its function is
provided by the admixture of the gardener’s assistant and turpentine.”
“Gardener’s assistant?”
“Earthworms,” said Jean. “He means earthworms ground in turpentine.”
“And you let him smear it all over me?” Locke groaned and sank back down onto the
pallet.
“Only your abdomen, sir—your much-abused abdomen.”
“He’s the physiker,” said Jean. “I’m only good at breaking people; I don’t put them
back together.”
“What happened to me, anyway?”
“Enervation—absolute enervation, as thorough as I’ve ever seen it.” Ibelius lifted
Locke’s left wrist while he spoke and felt for a pulse. “Jean told me that you took
an emetic, the evening of Duke’s Day.”
“Did I ever!”
“And that you ate and drank nothing afterward. That you were then seized, and severely
beaten, and nearly slain by immersion in a cask of horse urine—how fantastically vile,
sir, you have my sympathies. And that you had received a deep wound to your left forearm;
a wound that is now scabbing over nicely, no thanks to your ordeals. And that you
remained active all evening despite your injuries and your exhaustion.
And
that you pursued your course with the utmost dispatch, taking no rest.”
“Sounds vaguely familiar.”
“You simply collapsed, sir. In layman’s terms, your body revoked its permission for
you to continue heaping abuse upon it.” Ibelius chuckled.
“How long have I been here?”
“Two days and two nights,” said Jean.
“What? Gods damn me. Out cold the whole time?”
“Quite,” said Jean. “I watched you fall over; I wasn’t thirty yards away, crouched
in hiding. Took me a few minutes to realize why the bearded old beggar looked familiar.”
“I have kept you somewhat sedated,” said Ibelius. “For your own good.”
“Gods damn it!”
“Clearly, my judgment was sound, as you would have had no will to
rest otherwise. And it made it easier to use a series of fairly unpleasant poultices
to greatly reduce the swelling and bruising of your face. Had you been awake, you
surely would have complained of the smell.”
“Argh,” said Locke. “Tell me you have something at hand I can drink, at least.”
Jean passed him a skin of red wine; it was warm and sour and watered to the point
that it was more pink than red, but Locke drank half of it down in a rapid series
of undignified gulps.
“Have a care, Master Lamora, have a care,” said Ibelius. “I fear you have little conception
of your own natural limitations. Make him take the soup, Jean. He needs to regain
his animal strength, or his humors will fade again. He is far too thin for his own
good; he is fast approaching anemia.”
Locke devoured the proffered soup (boiled shark in a milk-and-potato stew; bland,
congealed, many hours past freshness, and positively the most splendid thing he could
recall ever having tasted), and then stretched. “Two days, gods. I don’t suppose we’ve
been lucky enough to have Capa Raza fall down some stairs and break his neck?”
“Hardly,” said Jean. “He’s still with us. Him and his Bondsmage. They’ve been very
busy, those two. It might interest you to know that the Gentlemen Bastards are formally
outcast, and I’m presumed alive, worth five hundred crowns to the man that brings
me in. Preferably after I stop breathing.”
“Hmmm,” said Locke. “Dare I ask, Master Ibelius, what keeps you here smearing earthworms
on my behalf when either of us is your key to Capa Raza’s monetary favor?”
“I can explain that,” said Jean. “Seems there was another Ibelius, who worked for
Barsavi as one of his Floating Grave guards. A
loyal
Barsavi man, I should say.”
“Oh,” said Locke. “My condolences, Master Ibelius. A brother?”
“My younger brother. The poor idiot; I kept telling him to find another line of work.
It seems we have a great deal of common sorrow, courtesy of Capa Raza.”
“Yes,” said Locke. “Yes, Master Ibelius. I’m going to put that fucker in the dirt
as deeply as any man who’s ever been murdered, ever since the world began.”
“Ahhh,” said Ibelius. “So Jean says. And that’s why I’m not even charging for my services.
I cannot say I think highly of your chances, but any enemy of Capa Raza is most welcome
to my care, and to my discretion.”
“Too kind,” said Locke. “I suppose if I
must
have earthworms and turpentine
smeared on my chest, I’m very happy to have you … ah, overseeing the affair.”
“Your servant, sir,” said Ibelius.
“Well, Jean,” said Locke, “we seem to have a hiding place, a physiker, and the two
of us. What are our other assets?”
“Ten crowns, fifteen solons, five coppers,” said Jean. “That cot you’re lying on.
You ate the wine and drank the soup. I’ve got the Wicked Sisters, of course. A few
cloaks, some boots, your clothes. And all the rotting plaster and broken masonry a
man could dream of.”
“And that’s it?”
“Yes, except for one small thing.” Jean held up the silver mesh mask of a priest of
Aza Guilla. “The aid and comfort of the Lady of the Long Silence.”
“How the hell did you arrange that?”
“Right after I dropped you off at the edge of the Cauldron,” said Jean, “I decided
to row back to the Temple District and make myself useful.”
THE FIRE within the House of Perelandro had yet to finish burning when Jean Tannen
threw himself down, half-dressed, at the service entrance to the House of Aza Guilla,
two squares northeast of the temple the Gentlemen Bastards had called their home.
Elderglass and stone could not burn, of course, but the contents of the House of Perelandro
were another matter. With the Elderglass reflecting and concentrating the heat of
the flames, everything within the burrow would be scorched to white ash, and the rising
heat would certainly do for the contents of the actual temple. A bucket brigade of
yellowjackets milled around the upper temple, with little to do but wait for the heat
and the hideous death-scented smoke to cease boiling out from the doors.
Jean banged a fist on the latched wooden door behind the Death Goddess’ temple and
prayed for the Crooked Warden’s aid in maintaining the Verrari accent he had too rarely
practiced in recent months. He knelt down, to make himself seem more pathetic.
After a few minutes, there was a click, and the door slid open a fraction of an inch.
An initiate, in unadorned black robes and a simple silver mask, so familiar to Jean,
stared down at him.
“My name is Tavrin Callas,” said Jean. “I require your aid.”
“Are you dying?” asked the initiate. “We can do little for those still in
good health. If you require food and succor, I would suggest the House of Perelandro,
although there seem to be … difficulties, this evening.”
“I’m not dying, and I
do
require food and succor. I am a bound servant of the Lady Most Kind, an initiate
of the Fifth Inner Mystery.”
Jean had judged this lie carefully; the fourth rank of the order of Aza Guilla was
full priesthood. The fifth would be a realistic level for someone assigned to courier
important business from city to city. Any higher rank, and he would be forced to deal
with senior priests and priestesses who should have heard of him.
“I was dispatched from Tal Verrar to Jeresh on the business of our order, but along
the way my ship was taken by Jeremite raiders. They took my robes, my seals of office,
my papers, and my Sorrowful Visage.”
“What?” The initiate, a girl, bent down to help Jean up. She was a quarter of his
weight, and the effort was slightly comical. “They dared interfere with an envoy of
the Lady?”
“The Jeremites do not keep the faith of the Twelve, little sister,” said Jean, who
allowed himself to be dragged up to his knees. “They delight in tormenting the pious.
I was chained to an oar for many long days. Last night, the galley that captured me
weighed anchor in Camorr Bay; I was assigned to dumping chamber pots over the side
while the officers went ashore to debauch themselves. I saw the fins of our Dark Brothers
in the water; I prayed to the Lady and seized my opportunity.”
One thing the brothers and sisters of Aza Guilla rarely advertised to outsiders (especially
in Camorr) was their belief that sharks were beloved of the Goddess of Death, and
that their mysterious comings and goings and their sudden brutal attacks were a perfect
encapsulation of the nature of the Lady Most Kind. Sharks were powerful omens to the
silver-masked priesthood. The High Proctor of Revelation House had not been joking
with his suggestion that Jean feel free to swim in the ocean after dark. Only the
faithless, it was said, would be attacked in the waters beneath Revelation House.
“The Dark Brothers,” said the initiate with rising excitement. “And did they aid you
in your escape?”
“You mustn’t think of it as aid,” said Jean, “for the Lady does not aid, she
allows
. And so it is with the Dark Brothers. I dove into the water and felt their presence
around me; I felt them swimming beneath my feet, and I saw their fins cutting the
surface of the water. My captors screamed that I was mad; when they saw the Brothers,
they assumed that I was soon to be
devoured, and they laughed. I laughed, too—when I crawled up onto the shore, unharmed.”
“Praise the Lady, Brother.”
“I do, I have, and I shall,” said Jean. “She has delivered me from our enemies; she
has given me a second chance to fulfill my mission. I pray, take me to the steward
of your temple. Let me meet with your Father or Mother Divine. I need only a Visage,
and robes, and a room for several nights while I put my affairs in order.”
“WASN’T THAT the name you apprenticed under,” said Locke, “all those years ago?”
“It was indeed.”
“Well, won’t they send messages? Won’t they make inquiries and find out that Tavrin
Callas was moved by divine curiosity to fling himself off a cliff?”
“Of course they will,” said Jean. “But it’ll take weeks to send one and get a reply … and
I don’t mean to keep the disguise for quite that long. Besides, it’ll be a bit of
fun for them. When they eventually discover Callas is supposed to be dead, they can
proclaim all sorts of visions and miracles. A manifestation from beyond the shadelands,
as it were.”
“A manifestation straight from the ass of a magnificent liar,” said Locke. “Well done,
Jean.”
“I suppose I just know how to talk to death priests. We all have our little gifts.”
“I say,” interrupted Ibelius, “is this wise? This … flaunting of the robes of office
of the priests of the Death Goddess herself? Tweaking the nose of … of the Lady Most
Kind?” Ibelius touched his eyes with both hands, then his lips, and then entwined
his fingers over his heart.
“If the Lady Most Kind wished to take offense,” said Jean, “she has had ample opportunity
to crush me flatter than gold leaf for my presumptions.”
“Furthermore,” said Locke, “Jean and I are sworn into the divine service of the Benefactor,
Father of Necessary Pretexts. Do you hold with the Crooked Warden, Master Ibelius?”
“It never hurts to have a care, in my experience. Perhaps I do not light hearth candles
or give coin, but … I do not speak unkindly of the Benefactor.”
“Well,” said Locke, “our mentor once told us that the initiates of the Benefactor
are strangely immune to consequences when they find they must pass as members of other
priesthoods.”
“Made to feel strangely welcome, I’d say,” added Jean. “And, in the present circumstances,
there are precious few practical disguises for a man of my size.”
“Ah. I do see your point, Jean.”
“It seems that the Death Goddess has been very busy of late,” said Locke, “with a
great many people other than ourselves. I’m quite awake now, Jean, and very comfortable,
Master Ibelius. No need to get up—I’m quite positive my pulse is right where I left
it, safe inside my wrist. What else can you tell me, Jean?”
“The situation is tense and bloody, but I’d say Capa Raza’s carried it. Word’s out
that all of us are dead, except myself, with that pretty price on my head. Supposedly,
we refused to swear allegiance to Raza and tried to fight back on Barsavi’s behalf,
and were justly slain in the process. All the other
garristas
are sworn; Raza didn’t wait three days before he hit. The most recalcitrant got their
throats slit tonight; five or six of them. Happened a few hours ago.”
“Gods. Where do you hear this from?”
“Some from Ibelius, who can get around a bit provided he keeps his head down. Some
from ministering. I happened to be in the Wooden Waste when a lot of people suddenly
turned up needing death prayers.”
“The Right People are in Raza’s pockets, then.”
“I’d say so. They’re getting used to the situation. Everyone’s like to pull knives
at the drop of a pin or the bite of a mosquito, but he’s got them coming round. He’s
operating out of the Floating Grave, same as Barsavi did. He’s keeping most of his
promises. It’s hard to argue with stability.”
“And what about our … other concern?” Locke made the hand gesture for
Thorn of Camorr
. “Heard anything about that? Any, ah, cracks in the facade?”
“No,” whispered Jean. “Seems like Raza was content to kill us off as sneak thieves
and leave us that way.”
Locke sighed in relief.
“But there’s other strangeness afoot,” said Jean. “Raza hauled in about half a dozen
men and women last night, from different gangs and different districts. Publicly named
them as agents of the Spider.”